Hopeless
by KM2000
Summary: Jarred watches Anna die in the Shadow Arena, and feels nothing is worth living for, until he ends up in the Arena himself.
1. Part One

A/N: This is my version of what happened to Jarred and Anna in the Shadowlands. I'm thinking of writing a second chapter, describing Jarred's flight through Dread Mountain and his stay at Kinrest, but I don't know if I'll get around to that just yet. So for the moment, this fanfiction will be marked as completed.

Disclaimer: Deltora Quest belongs to Emily Rodda.

Hopeless

Her heart beat like a drum, in time to the hisses and cheers of the audience. She clutched the wooden sword the Grey Guards had given her, and stared as the Vraal darted out into the Arena. It was a fearsome beast, to be sure, its eyes a mere slit in its face, its mouth a gaping crimson hole. But Anna did not hesitate as it came towards her. She swung, as Jarred had once taught her, aiming for its mouth, the only weak point in its reptilian body. It was quick, quicker than she expected. It evaded the blade, moving to circle her at a safe distance as she swung at it again.

For a moment, they circled each other, never taking their eyes off each other. Anna tightened her grip on the sword, determined not to be surprised by its next attack.

The Vraal leapt at her, claws outstretched, gaping mouth open wide in a grin of triumph. Anna stumbled out of the way, but not fast enough. She bit her lip to keep from screaming as she felt the Vraal's claws dig into her leg, and felt the warm trickle of blood.

oOo

Jarred's heart hammered as he watched Anna limp away from the Vraal, a serious-looking gash on her leg. He could tell she was tiring, the way her head bowed and her breath came out in a painful sob. But still she held her sword in front of her, determined to fight until the very end.

She spun to face the Vraal, determination blazing on her dear face. Whatever you do, do not falter, Jarred prayed silently. I beg of you, do not falter!

She faltered. Her breath caught as she gazed at the Vraal's reptilian body, protected against any weapon, and Jarred could imagine her debating how to attack.

That was all the opening the Vraal needed. It pounced, jaws gaping in triumph at its prey.

oOo

Anna screamed. She screamed like she had never screamed before, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. The pain was beyond bearing. Dimly she heard the crowds cheering, and Jarred shouting.

Then it was just her and the Vraal. It clawed at her, its stinking breath close to her cheek. As it tore at her, she knew.

She was dying.

She had never expected to die in such a way, in the Shadow Arena with the Shadow Lord's creatures cheering as she was devoured by a Vraal. If she were to die, she had imagined it being in her old age, with her husband, daughter and grandchildren gathered around her. But she did not regret it. She thought of Sharn, Endon and their child, safe in the forge, preparing for the day when they would take back their kingdom. She thought of Jasmine, her beautiful daughter, left behind in the Forests of Silence, not knowing whether she lived or died. Frankly, it did not matter if she died now, as long as Endon and Sharn and their child survived. Knowing this, she could die happy.

She closed her eyes, and felt herself go limp, feeling a heavy darkness cloud her vision.

_I love you, Jarred_, was her last thought as the darkness consumed her.

oOo

_No, please no! _

Jarred watched as Anna exhaled, her body going limp, the blood flowing freely from the many lacerations and wounds on her body she had sustained from the Vraal. Her chest did not rise again.

'Anna! No!' the shout burst from his throat. Jarred stumbled forward, head pounding. Anna could not be dead. She could not be dead. He could not imagine a life without Anna in it.

'Get back, scum!' a Grey Guard snapped, striking at Jarred with a whip, forcing him to his knees. 'It will be your turn soon enough.'

Tears blurring his vision, Jarred bowed his head, unable to bear the sight of Anna's bleeding, mangled body. The Vraal was not finished with her yet, even after her death, and was tearing her into chunks, feasting with relish on her bloody carcass. The audience gave a sigh of rapture, and Jarred kept his head bowed to hide the fury and disgust plain on his face. He didn't expect anything else from them, being creatures of the Shadow Lord.

As he returned to his cell—the cell he and Anna had shared with fifteen other slaves—the silence was deafening. He stumbled to a corner of the cell, feeling the gazes boring into his back, pitying him.

'I do not need your pity,' he hissed, head bowed, unable to face them.

'What is wrong with him?' a little girl asked anxiously, a frail one with long blonde hair. Anna had treated her for a fever not even a week before. 'Is he ill?'

'His wife was thrown into the Arena,' the girl's mother said, pity laced in her voice as she looked at Jarred. 'Do you remember her, Enlinn? The healer. Kindest woman I'd ever known.'

_His wife was thrown into the Arena… Poor woman, was so kind…a healer… such a kind, merry woman…will miss the happiness she brought with her…_

Jarred blocked his ears to the painful chatter, closed his eyes. Could they not discuss Anna as if she were a thing to chat about and forget? It did not matter that they all saw prisoners leave their cells to die fighting in the Shadow Arena, that this was an everyday occurrence for them. This was _Anna_. His wife. His reason for living. Could they not show more respect?

He desperately wanted to tell them to stop, but his voice was silent, his tongue numbed by what he had witnessed. Oh, Anna, Jarred thought hopelessly. Why did you have to leave me alone?

He slumped onto the ground, and felt the world fade to darkness around him.

oOo

'Jarred!' Anna's voice rang out across the Shadow Arena, high and panicky. From his view from the back of the Arena, he could see her, exhausted and frightened, cowering before the Vraal as it prepared to pounce, her wooden sword discarded a few feet away in the sand.

'I am coming,' Jarred muttered, heart beating wildly, frantically shoving people out of his way.

'Jarred, help me!'

'I am coming!' he repeated, pushing his way through the jostling crowds of people, who kept moving in his way, preventing him from reaching his wife. 'Damn it!' he swore as yet another person blocked his path. 'Move away! I must save her!'

The person laughed, and stepped closer, and it was a Grey Guard, and not a person at all. 'Get back, scum!' the Grey Guard mocked. 'It will be your turn soon enough.' He shoved at Jarred, and Jarred was pushed back, back to the edges of the Arena, engulfed in the throngs of people gathered there, unable to free himself as Anna screamed and screamed, blood splattering the sand as she fell to ground, blood streaming from the countless wounds caused by the Vraal's attacks.

'No!' Jarred fell to his knees, hands reaching out towards her. He had to try, had to save her! 'No, please! Anna!'

She lay on the ground, motionless, breathless. Dead. The sand beneath her was soaked with blood. _Her blood. _But the Vraal continued to tear at her, sinking its sharp teeth into her flesh.

'No, please! Stop!' Jarred shouted. 'Stop it!' He stumbled to his feet, grabbed at someone, _anyone _who could help him. 'Help her, please! She's dying!'

The person turned in his grasp to gaze coldly at him. And Jarred saw that it was Endon. 'Please,' Jarred said hoarsely. 'Help her. I saved the lives of you and your family; you owe it to me to help!' He knew it was unfair of him to ask it of Endon, but he was desperate. He had to save Anna. 'Please!' he repeated.

Endon stepped away, shook his head. 'No, Jarred. I cannot; I must keep my family safe, my heir safe. You got yourself into this; you must face it alone.' And Jarred found himself clutching at thin air as Endon faded away into nothingness.

'No!' Jarred almost wept with frustration. Why would Endon not help him? Why would no one help him? Surely he deserved it more than anyone!

'You are not worthy of it,' a Grey Guard's voice sneered in the crowd. 'Ruddy tick!'

Jarred fell to his knees, clutching his skull, unable to erase Anna's ear-splitting screams in his head. 'No! Stop! Please!' he shouted, but the anguished keening continued until his heart and soul shattered as clearly as Anna had been torn apart by the Vraal and nothing was left but a deep, void-sucking emptiness.

oOo

'Anna!' Jarred found himself lying on the floor of the cell, staring up at the ceiling marked by the Shadow Lord's brand. It took a moment for him to realise that he was really awake, and not in another dream. Then a horrible awareness flooded through him. Anna was dead. His Anna, with the unruly brown hair and heart-warming smile, who could cheer an entire cell of people in a land without hope. She was dead, and Jarred was left alone.

_You got yourself into this; you must face it alone_, Endon's words in the dream echoed painfully in Jarred's head. The memory of Anna's anguished screams entered his mind, and Jarred bowed his head, eyes blurred with his tears. He had brought her to this end.

'I am so sorry, Anna,' he said softly, as her phantom screams resounded in his skull. 'I never meant this to happen. I am so sorry. Oh, Anna!' And he wept, shoulders shaking, hating himself with a fierce intensity he never had before.

Anna was dead.

oOo

There seemed to be no reason to live any more. There was nothing to live _for_, Jarred thought dimly. His wife was dead; his daughter was likely dead too. Jarred did not think much of her chances of survival in the Forests of Silence. Endon was alive, living in his family in the forge in Del, but it seemed pointless to live for him. What could Jarred do for Endon now, in the Shadowlands? He had done all he could for his childhood friend; he could do no more.

He wanted to die. It was agony, living in the cell without Anna, feeling his heart and soul break piece by painful piece as he thought of what he had done to her, to Jasmine. He had convinced Anna to leave their home in the forge, had convinced her to seek refuge in the Forests of Silence. He had caused Anna's heart to break when they were captured by the Grey Guards in First Wood, and he was the reason Jasmine was growing up alone in the Forests, without friends or family to guide her. It was his fault, all his. What was left of Jarred's heart ached to think of it.

As the two Grey Guards marched inside the cell, searching for the next slave to throw into the Arena, Jarred hoarsely called out, 'Take me, please!' Surely it was better to die in the Arena than spend another moment in that damnable cell, Jarred thought. 'I will go!' he shouted, stumbling forwards.

The Grey Guards laughed. 'You will have to wait, scum,' one sneered. 'Your turn will come soon enough.' They marched out dragging the frail girl Enlynn with them, her face a mask of despair and terror as she screamed for her mother, who only bowed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, and did nothing. The words were an eerie echo of the words spoken at Anna's death, and in his dream. Jarred could only hope his turn would come in time; it was the only thing that gave him hope, the thought that he would be free of this agonising existence soon.

oOo

He got his wish. A week later they came for him: two Grey Guards, snarling viciously as they grabbed him and forced him out of the cell. Jarred did not even try to resist; it was almost a relief to him, to know he would die in the Shadow Arena. He willingly followed the two Guards to the fitting area connected to the Arena.

The Guards had not had a slave who did not cry, scream or struggle during their journey to the Arena. They regarded Jarred with suspicion. 'Why isn't he resisting?' one asked, irritated. They loved it when a slave struggled against them; it gave them the excuse to attack them. That Jarred did not try to escape was of great disappointment to them. They had heard of his skills as a fighter from the Grey Guards who had marched Jarred and Anna to the Shadowlands, and they had obviously hoped to test their skills against his.

At the entrance to the Arena, the Guards gave Jarred a wooden sword; still stained with the blood of the last person to enter, Jarred noticed with a shudder. 'Good luck, tick,' one of the Grey Guards, mocked. 'Try not to die quickly.' The other laughed, and shoved at Jarred.

He stumbled into the Shadow Arena.

The roar of the crowds was deafening. There were hundreds upon hundreds of them, seated on benches around the stadium, cheering and stamping their feet, eyes glued upon Jarred as he walked to the centre of the Arena. He was struck dumb at the hundreds of creatures in the audience. There were Ols, who were changing their shapes every second; and Grey Guards, who sneered at him and hooted with excitement at the entertainment to come. Jarred felt slightly overwhelmed by the sheer noise and size of it all. He wondered briefly if Anna had felt the same way when she had been sent to die.

And then Jarred's gaze was riveted on the door at the other end of the Arena. It slid open inch by inch, while the creatures in the audience screeched loudly in impatience. Jarred almost wished it would never open, but also wished it would hurry up so that he could have it over and done with. He shook his head at the conflicting feels broiling inside himself.

And then it was open, and the Vraal leapt out, claws outstretched, its crimson mouth gaping open, eyes narrowed in their slits. Jarred raised his wooden sword within sweating palms and deftly avoided the Vraal's attack. The crowds went wild. They were positively bloodthirsty, Jarred thought. They wanted a fight. So! Jarred thought. I will give one to them.

The Vraal pounced at him again, and again Jarred evaded it. But this time he retaliated, slashing at the Vraal's mouth. With great satisfaction, Jarred heard the creature screech in fury and pain, and watched as blood streamed from its mouth in thick rivulets. So! Jarred thought triumphantly. I was right. Its throat is its weak point.

But it did not fall. The Vraal pounced at Jarred again, fury blazing in its eyes. Though blood dripped down its throat, it was still lightning fast, and fury had made it even faster. Jarred leapt out of the way, too late, and winced in pain as the Vraal's sharp claws dug into his arm and thigh. He cursed his own stupidity. Of course fury would have sharpened the Vraal's focus! Jarred's retaliatory attack had made it even quicker than it was already. Blood spurted from the gashes on Jarred's arm and thigh, creating sharp bursts of pain, and he felt his energy wane with every drop that splattered onto the sand. Dropping his sword, he pressed his hands upon his wounded thigh, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.

He heard the sound of the Vraal's claws treading the sandy ground behind him. Jarred's heart sank like a stone. He could not outrun it, not now. He was exhausted; his leg was injured. What could he do now?

He felt the Vraal coil to spring, to deal the killing blow. He heard the audience hold their breath in anticipation.

Still clutching at his thigh-wound, he turned to face it. He was brought in the Arena to fight. So he would die fighting. It was a fitting end, Jarred thought. He thought of Anna, his dear wife who he had lead to her death in the Arena. He thought of Jasmine, who Jarred had left alone in the Forests of Silence to grow up without parents. He thought of Endon and Sharn and their child, the heir to Deltora, whom he had given his home and identity to so that they could survive for long enough to restore the gems to the Belt of Deltora and defeat the Shadow Lord. Jarred had done so much damage, but so much good, as well. It was fitting that he die here, in the Arena, fighting a monstrous beast. The one thing Jarred regretted the most was not having a chance to see Endon again. It seemed that they would never see each other again in this life, after all.

The Vraal pounced, bellowing a screeching war cry as it flew at Jarred. Jarred just stood there, his eyes glued to the creature. Just let it be quick, Jarred prayed. That was all he could ask. Recalling Anna's screams as the Vraal tore at her body, Jarred knew that it would not be so quick, that it would be excruciatingly painful. But he hoped and prayed anyway.

It was lightning-fast. In one moment Jarred felt the heavy weight of the Vraal thrown at him, and in the next he was on the ground, dazed, staring up into the Vraal's triumphant eye-slits as it prepared to lunge again, and hearing the noisy, deafening bloodthirsty shouts of the crowds on the benches. 'Kill him!' 'Burst his brains out!' 'Tear him to pieces!'

And then…pain, a searing pain at the side of his head, and the feeling of a disgustingly warm wetness oozing thickly down his cheek. And a darkness, a terrible darkness, pressing down upon his face, forcing his eyes to close, just for a second, as a sudden exhaustion set in.

oOo

'Kill him! Kill him!' He awoke to strange bloodthirsty shouts, and a heavy panting, and a stench so horrid it caused him to wretch. That's blood, a part of him thought dazedly. The stench of blood. Whose blood? He wondered. Then he felt a wetness on his head, and reality hit him. It was his blood.

Why on earth would he have blood on the side of his head? He wondered, more than a little confused now. What on earth was going on?

A bloodthirsty bellow caught his attention. His eyes flew open to see a monstrous creature, eyes for slits and mouth gaping wide, crouching before him, coiling to pounce. He gaped at it. He was sure he had never seen the like before. What was it doing there? Why was it attacking him?

It charged at him, mouth turned in a horrible grimace. He rolled out of its way, heart hammering. What was going on? The thing did not retreat but spun to charge at him again. Was it mad?

He leapt to his feet. 'What is happening here?' he shouted. The people on the benches were shouting, cheering, stamping their feet. Did they not realise what was happening, what was going on? Why would they not help him? 'Where am I?' They did not answer him, but laughed and jeered and spat at his face.

'Cowardly tick!' one sneered. 'Get back and fight!'

Fight? He stared, confused. Why should he fight? Why did they want him to fight? Surely it was better to run away!

He scanned the area, which seemed to be some sort of stadium. There! A stream of light shone through a gap in the wall at the far end. That is where I must go, he thought. He raced towards it, heart pounding, hearing the furious shouts of the people in the stadium. 'Come back here, tick!' 'Die, you foul monster!' 'Get after him, Vraal!'

So! He thought with clarity. It seemed that he had been put there to die for some reason. And that thing chasing after him was called a Vraal. A Vraal!

He had reached the light, and plunged into it, leaving behind the roaring voices and that monstrous Vraal. Ha! He thought triumphantly. Those fools may have thought they had me, may have thought that I would not escape. They wanted him dead, for reasons that were beyond him. Well, he was not going to die today.

His heart lifted even as he heard the sounds of pursuit behind him. Despite it all, he was alive, and on his way to freedom; it loomed ahead, in the form of a large mountain at the border of the barren landscape he was running across. There, he would be free; there, he would be safe. There, he would be able to discover what, who and where he was. There, he would be able to get rid of the emptiness he felt deep in his heart.

He kept running, certain of one thing: beyond that green mountain lay _home_.


	2. Part Two

Disclaimer: Deltora Quest belongs to Emily Rodda.

Pursuit

They were coming.

He could hear the rapid patter of their footsteps, the ominous sound of twigs snapping underneath their boots. He could hear their disgruntled spatter of words as they searched for their runaway prisoner, sure that he was somewhere on this damned mountain. After all, where else could he go? The only place to go to was towards Deltora, for so they called this bright, beautiful land.

He stood as still as a stone in the shadow of the strange thorny trees that littered the landscape. Hopefully his pursuers would not think to search near the trees, not wanting to be scratched by the thorns. But still, he held his breath as the men who were not men came into view. He had gathered that they tracked his scent, like hounds tracking blood. There was a large chance that they would find him, but he dearly hoped that the thorns repelled them from looking too closely.

He could feel his heart hammer as he heard their harsh voices.

'Oy!' the first guard barked. 'Pern 1! The prisoner is here somewhere. It stinks of ticks.'

The other guard grunted, his face thunderous, as he shoved myriads of thorny branches out of his path. 'Those damnable trees are everywhere! I heard you, Pern 2!' He snarled as another branch whipped into his face. 'We cannot go any further. These trees will be the death of us!'

'The master told us explicitly to find this prisoner and bring him back,' Pern 2 snapped. 'Move it! He cannot be far from here. He must be hiding in the trees.'

Grumbling, Pern 1 obeyed, marching directly towards the escapee's hiding place.

Their prisoner's heart sank. This was exactly was he had hoped would not happen. Now he would be forced to confront them, and in his current state, it was possible that he would be killed or captured again.

He braced himself as they neared his hiding place.

'Pern 1!' Pern 2 called. 'The tick is here!'

He sprang before the creature uttered another word. What came next was short, bloody, and very, very satisfying.

oOo

Hours later, he collapsed onto the floor of the cave he had stumbled upon, feeling the blood from his wounds drip in thick drops onto the stone beneath him. The fight with the guards had taken more effort and had wounded him more than he had expected. Every wound on his body ached and burned fiercely and exhaustion cloaked his body like a heavy blanket. He closed his eyes, relieved. Finally, _finally_ he could rest safely. Finally he was safe. He drifted off to sleep with that comforting thought in his mind.

When he woke, gasping for breath and heart pounding, darkness filled the cave. Moonlight shone dimly outside the entrance, causing the stream visible in the distance to shimmer with silver light.

It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream… But as he recalled the dream, remembered the sounds of the sweet-faced woman screaming and being torn to shreds, and feeling as if he should know her, and himself being pound into the ground by a Vraal, he knew that is was not just a dream. His mind was trying to tell him something. But what?

He hauled himself into a sitting position, wincing as his muscles screamed in protest. Questions swirled in his mind; questions that had been pushed out of his mind during his nightmarish escape from the Arena, but surfaced into the forefront of it now that he was out of danger. Who was he? Where was he? Why was he here? Frowning, he struggled to remember his past before the fight in the Arena, but there was only a terrifying darkness.

So, he thought. He would have to solve this riddle that he had become by using logic. He dragged himself over to the wall of the cave, and traced the erratic thoughts growing in his mind onto the granite. _Who am I?_ Well, he was a man, that was certain, unlike the cruel Grey Guards. _Where am I? _He was on a mountain of some sort, apparently a part of Deltora. And he had come from a desolate wasteland north of the mountain. _The Shadowlands_, a voice whispered deep inside of him, and he knew that this was its name. _What should I do now?_ He thought of the being that the Guards had called 'the master', and the familiar way the Grey Guards had traversed the rough terrain of the mountain. A memory came to him, of his escape from the Arena. There had been others there like him, he remembered, hidden at the back of the Arena, chained together like animals. They must have been from Deltora, just as he was.

He bowed his head. It seemed that evil had entered this land long ago, enslaving its people. The Grey Guard's 'master' was the master of Deltora now. It did not bode well for him. He would be pursued in Deltora by Grey Guards wherever he went. He thought of the people of Deltora having to face this sort of treatment and his heart broke inside of him. No person should have that experience.

_What should I do now?_ The thought returned to him, glowing and purposeful. And he knew. He would return to Deltora and help the people resist the tyranny of the hated Enemy. Inspired, he found himself tracing a V-like shape onto the cave wall, a V shaped like a bird in flight. He gazed at the strange symbol, and wondered where he had known it from.

Filled with new purpose, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled towards the cave entrance. Just once he turned back. And gaped. For the place where he had been lying was covered in blood, and on the wall on which he had been tracing were words written in blood.

Slowly he lifted his hands to the moonlight, and found them stained scarlet. Blood, a part of him thought dimly. His blood. Despite knowing that he was severely injured, he realised that he had not fully understood or noticed the blood seeping from his wounds and the danger it could bring.

He shook his head. He had to leave the mountain, or a legion of Grey Guards would find him and most likely kill him. He had to find refuge. That was what he had to focus on now, he told himself. Leaving the mountain and finding a place of refuge.

He stumbled from the cave, ignoring the searing pain of his wounds, leaving the words glimmering crimson on the wall behind him.

oOo

As he journeyed to the base of the mountain, he learnt much. He learnt that the mountain was called Dread Mountain, and that it was the home of the Dread Gnomes. He learnt that the thorny trees were called Boolong trees, and that they had overpopulated the mountain ever since the Dread Gnomes had chased a race called the Kin away, who ate the Boolong trees.

He learnt that once the Dread Gnomes had been a mighty race, proud and known for their love of gold, but that they had been deceived into slaving away for a hidden evil. He learnt that the mountain was filled with danger and monsters lurked in every shadow.

He learnt all this during a number of close encounters with the Dread Gnomes. The first encounter occurred on a sunny day as he was journeying down the slope of the mountain, taking care not to be scratched by thorns from the trees. From behind him, he heard footsteps marching closer in his direction, and a spatter of voices from above. Alarmed, he sprang by instinct into the shadow of the trees, burrowing into them, ignoring the sting of the lacerations the thorns caused on the backs of his hands and head. What if Grey Guards had found him at last? He held himself as still as he could as he watched the footsteps come closer and closer.

To his relief, the strangers were not Grey Guards, but a group of short, stocky individuals dressed in clothes made from animal hide and fur. They held their heads proudly as they marched, each of them holding a jar of strange liquid. Their faces were mainly expressionless, but he could see resentment and discontent on the faces of a few of them. He soon found out why.

'This is a disgrace!' one hissed to another. 'Dread Gnomes should not be slaving away for a giant toad. Our halls should not be filled with dead flies and slime. We should be in charge of our own territory!'

His eyes narrowed at the name. So these people were called the Dread Gnomes, and they were enslaved by some sort of evil.

'Shut your mouth, Gla-Thon!' a Gnome hissed. 'Gellick saved us, made us strong. He protected us from the Shadow Lord and his creatures. He made us powerful.'

'I know I am right, Ri-Nan!' Gla-Thon shrieked. 'And one day you will see it!'

'Shut it, or you will bring Gellick's wrath down upon us for speaking ill of him!' Ri-Nan snapped.

'Oh, do you really think he is so powerful that he can hear me?' Gla-Thon jeered.

'He is capable of anything,' another Gnome broke in after a pause. 'Ri-Nan is right; we must do nothing to bring his wrath down upon us. Because of Gellick, the Shadow Lord has not turned his attention on us, as he has on the other tribes of Deltora. We must bide our time, and wait.'

Ri-Nan and Gla-Thon both grimaced but said nothing further, and they walked on in silence.

The Gnomes passed out of sight, travelling further down the mountain. He crept out of his hiding place, shaking. A great evil had befallen this mountain, enslaving the Gnomes, just as Deltorans were enslaved in the desolate place he had escaped from. And an even greater evil had taken over Deltora. It was terrible to think of the suffering the people had endured. Something had to be done about it.

He walked on, thoughts and ideas filling his mind as he followed the Gnomes' pathway down the mountain.

oOo

His second encounter with the Dread Gnomes occurred when he found a hut three quarters of the way down the mountain, seemingly deserted. Out of curiosity, he walked inside, and gaped. It was crawling with bugs, and spiders spun webs in each corner of the hut. How could anyone leave a hut in such disarray? It must have been deserted for years.

'Who are you?' a harsh voice behind him demanded.

He spun to meet the cold eyes of a Dread Gnome. The Gnome aimed a bow and arrow at his chest. 'This hut is the property of the Dread Gnomes, and forbidden to strangers,' she said coldly. 'Why are you here?'

'I am just a traveller,' he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. 'I saw this hut, and was curious. I did not know that strangers were forbidden to enter and I apologise if I have offended.'

After a moment, the Gnome lowered her bow and arrow, and he watched as her body lost its tension. 'Well then,' she said, 'you have been warned now. Do not make the same mistake again, or you will pay with your life.' She turned and strode from the hut and he could hear her making her way up the mountain.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief at the near escape from death. What luck he had! But the Gnome he had just met would tell her leader of their encounter, and in turn the Shadow Lord would be notified of the whereabouts of his escaped prisoner. It was even more important now to leave the mountain as quickly as possible.

He left the small hut, and walked on, praying that he would make it to the base of the mountain before the Grey Guards caught up to him.

oOo

The rest of his journey from the mountain passed uneventfully. When at last he saw the foot of the mountain, he almost collapsed with fatigue, but managed to stay standing. It had been an exhaustive journey, but it was not over yet. He would have to find a cottage or village of some sort where he could find supplies and heal from his wounds, and where he could be safe from Grey Guards. Feeling the burning pain of his wounds, and the blood dripping onto the grass beneath him, he wondered that he had made it this far without collapsing from blood loss or being recaptured by Grey Guards who would be able to smell the blood from a mile away. But he had. And he would go on, and survive.

He marched onwards, along the dirt path that led from the mountain. It was an effort to remain standing, but somehow he managed. As he walked, the world faded to one pin-prick on the horizon. He barely noticed his surroundings; he found himself in a dream-like trance, caused by sheer exhaustion, unaware of where he was going and how long he had been walking. Only one thought shone clear in his mind: _keep walking. Survive. _And so he stumbled upon the terrain, feeling as if he were living a dream.

oOo

He did not know how many hours he had been walking when he collapsed. As he came to his senses, lying on the soft, damp grass, he felt a measure of peace overcome him, and knew that he had come to a safe place at last. He closed his eyes, tired to the bone. Maybe now he could sleep…

He was startled awake by the sound of footsteps. Alarmed, he sat up, and relaxed as he saw an old, old man approach him. He expected the man to question him, but he took one look at him and helped him to his feet, and said, 'Come with me.'

He followed the man to a cave amidst a forest of ferns and trees. Inside, the old man began preparing a meal of cooked meat and herbs, cooking them over a blazing fire. He did not say one word to his guest as he did this, but merely pointed to a corner of the cave.

The escaped prisoner was forced to wait until the meal was served before he could ask the questions burning in his mind. He gazed warily at his food. The meat was burnt at the edges and the herbs looked too dry. It did not seem like a nourishing, delicious meal but he did not want to offend his host by pointing that out. The old man had offered him shelter when he could have turned him away; it seemed not right to complain of the meal he had been given when this man had been so generous and compassionate.

'Who—who are you?' he blurted out.

'I am Doom of the Hills,' the man replied, chewing his bacon with obvious relish. 'I live here.'

'Here?' He could not imagine anyone choosing to live in a cave. 'Why here?'

'I am a hermit, of a sort,' the man smiled. 'I was a greedy, selfish man, once. After a terrible accident which took the life of my sister, I saw the error of my ways and left my village, seeking a life of solitude and peace. I found this place, and have lived here ever since, communing with nature and repenting for my past sins.'

The ex-prisoner stared at him, open-mouthed. The old man frowned, seeing his food untouched. 'Eat, friend,' he said. 'Eat, and become strong again. This food will help you recover from your ordeal.'

Reluctantly, the prisoner tucked into the meal. 'What is this place?' he asked between mouthfuls of meat. 'It is so peaceful here.'

'I call this shelter Kinrest,' Doom said. 'Once, a race called the Kin rested here during their journeys to and from Dread Mountain. You may not have heard of them; many people have not. They are fabled creatures. They stopped returning to the Mountain when the Dread Gnomes began shooting at them with poisoned arrows, and chose to remain at their winter home. It was safer for them.'

The prisoner nodded. He could understand the need to survive. He himself had fled certain death in the Shadowlands.

'But who are you?' the old man asked, his dark eyes piercing into the prisoner. 'Where did you come from?'

The prisoner hesitated, unsure as to how much he should reveal about himself. If Grey Guards found this man, they would extract any information they could about their escaped prisoner if they thought that the old man was hiding something. He did not want to put him in danger.

'Friend, I gave you shelter and shared my meal with you. Give me the courtesy of knowing who I am helping.' The man stared at him intently, his expression unfathomable.

'I come from the Shadowlands,' the prisoner admitted after a moment. 'I do not know anything about myself besides that, and the fact that Deltora is my home. I am being pursued by Grey Guards; I do not want to put you in danger, so I must leave as soon as possible. I thank you for your hospitality.' He waited for the man's reaction to his words. Would he now be regretting that he had helped him? He found himself holding his breath instinctively.

'Nonsense!' the man frowned at him. 'I will not allow you to leave in such a condition, despite your claims of being pursued. You are tired and wounded; you must recover or you will die of your injuries. I will deal with any danger when it comes.'

His expression left no room for argument. The prisoner reluctantly nodded.

'Rest, and recover,' Doom of the Hills commanded. 'You may stay as long as you need to at Kinrest.'

Despite his nagging doubts, the prisoner felt an overwhelming relief. Truly he had not wanted to leave this place of safety, and desperately wanted to be strong enough to defeat a troop of Grey Guards should they find him. He hoped, deep inside of him, that he would be safe at last.

oOo

For three days, the prisoner stayed peacefully at Kinrest. There, with old Doom's help, his wounds healed and his strength was recovered. He got to know Doom quite well during the time he spent there, and learned to appreciate and respect his peaceful nature and stubbornness. Doom was not resistant to ordering him around if something needed to be done. The two men soon became friends.

On the morn of his third day at Kinrest, he woke to the sounds of rapid footsteps approaching Kinrest, and a harsh voice shouting, 'He is here! I smell ticks!'

The prisoner's heart thudded painfully, and he almost groaned. They had found him, and now the old man Doom was in danger, because he had helped him.

He crept to the entrance of the cave, and froze as he saw the scene laid out before him. Three Grey Guards stood before Doom of the Hills, snarling at him, while the old man maintained a serene posture and expression.

'I live here in solitude, sirs,' he heard Doom say peaceably. 'I have for many years. No one is living here but me.' His hands were outstretched, as if to show them that he was not an enemy. The prisoner longed to yell at him to run, but he knew that that would undermine all that the old man had done to protect him and heal his wounds. The Grey Guards would most certainly kill him if they found him there.

There was a heavy silence, and the Grey Guards looked at each other, grinning in glee. 'You lie, old man,' they snarled, turning their murderous gazes upon Doom. 'We smell two ticks. Where is he?'

Tension filled the atmosphere between the Guards and Doom. The old man repeated, 'I am the only one here,' but his voice was less steady. He stared at the two Guards, who grinned maliciously back. They crouched, preparing to pounce upon their prey.

The prisoner's heart thudded. He had to do something. He could not stand and watch while those monsters killed his rescuer and host. He had to help the old man somehow. But how?

He was not thinking as he charged out of the cave. He faced the Grey Guards, baring his teeth at them. 'Let him go,' he said. 'I am the one you want. Leave him be.'

The Grey Guards grinned. 'We think not,' one of them said. 'The more ticks dead, the better, I reckon.' The Guard stepped towards Doom, hands reaching for his neck.

The prisoner sprang at the Guard, barely hearing Doom's choked exclamation. The Grey Guards roared, and suddenly the prisoner found himself in the middle of a battlefield. He dodged and attacked, dodged and attacked again, and watched with grim satisfaction as the Guards fell, one by one, blood spattering the grass beneath them.

His satisfaction died when he saw old Doom slumped on the ground, his neck twisted in an odd way, his eyes wide open and sightless. Sudden grief flooded the prisoner as he recalled Doom's exclamation. He had never had a chance.

oOo

He buried Doom of the Hills in the cave he had lived in for so long. It had been home to him; it was right that he should be buried there. As he knelt before the grave, in remembrance of the old man who had helped him when he had needed it most, he prayed that he would finally be at peace in the spirit world.

He gazed at the words he had scratched onto the headstone: _Here lies Doom of the Hills, who helped a friendless stranger and so met his death. _

He could feel the grief and rage rise in him, and he did not quench it. It was not fair that this old man had to die like this. He had been peaceable and _good_. The Grey Guards had had no reason to kill him, other than spite. They should not have been able to kill him.

His fists clenched; his body trembled with the fury he was feeling. Doom should not have died like he had. It was because of him that the Grey Guards had killed him. If Doom of the Hills had not helped him, he would still be alive.

But the prisoner was not angry at himself so much as the Shadow Lord. Yes, he had brung death to Doom's home, but it was the Shadow Lord who had sanctioned it, his creatures who had killed Doom. They had to be stopped, and not just because of himself.

He thought of the Dread Gnomes, slaving for a giant toad, and Doom, who had died protecting him from the brutal Grey Guards. He thought of the Dread Gnome who had spared his life when he trespassed upon one of their huts. For them, and for himself, he would help rid Deltora of the Shadow Lord.

He hesitated, and scratched four more words onto the stone. _He will be avenged!_ Looking down at his handiwork, he smiled grimly. It was fitting that Doom should have such a message scrawled on his headstone. The old man had given him shelter and healed his wounds, and had paid with his life. The prisoner swore with all his heart and soul that he would be avenged, that he would see the Shadow Lord and his creatures defeated for what they had done to Doom and the people of Deltora.

But he was no one. He had no identity, no memory and no friends to help him. How could he do this thing, when he had virtually nothing to go on? For a moment, he faltered.

And then he remembered Doom. 'I called myself Doom,' the old man had once said. 'It seemed a fitting name. Everyone around me felt doomed by my presence.' The prisoner remembered how he had chuckled bitterly, and remembered how he had felt empathy with Doom. He too felt that way at times, thinking of his escape from the Shadowlands.

Doom. It was a fitting name, the prisoner thought. It would suit him very well. It seemed as if he was doomed, doomed without a memory and without hope.

So, he thought, satisfaction filling his mind. _Doom_. He was Doom of the Hills. No longer a nameless prisoner from the Shadowlands. The thought made him smile again.

He stood and walked towards the entrance of the cave, thinking. He was safe. He was finally safe. As long as he was known as Doom of the Hills, the Shadow Lord would not be searching for him. Indeed, he most likely would think him dead. The Grey Guards would not pursue him any longer; he had seen to that with a great sense of vengeance and satisfaction. He had strewn their bones in the deepest corners of Kinrest, burying them in the soil so that they could never be found.

He was finally safe. The thought filled him with something akin to joy, and relief, and hope. He was safe, and he was alive. He felt a smile spread across his face; fleeting and tiny, but a smile nonetheless.

He had an identity. He had a mission. He was safe at last.

For now, that had to be enough.


End file.
